


whorish, heavenly

by mysterymistakes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Incubus Sylvain Jose Gautier, M/M, Minor humiliation kink, Rough Sex, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Womb Tattoo, minor pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterymistakes/pseuds/mysterymistakes
Summary: It makes his mouth water just thinking about it. From what he’s heard, there are few meals quite as satisfying as laying with a saint, and he’s long been keen on finding out.Sylvain wants to know what it's like to fuck a saint.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Seteth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	whorish, heavenly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ichigobun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichigobun/gifts).



Sylvain is an incubus. He has to fuck to live, and that’s that—he’s not _just_ a flirt, thank you very much, he’s a flirt because if he doesn’t, he’ll starve, and there’s nothing out there quite like a sex demon scourged. He’s slid his way into many, many beds across the monastery, from students to faculty to staff to merchants passing through and back again, but there’s one person who has always remained just out of reach, barely past the tips of his fingers and for whom he hungers more than anyone.

Seteth. Saint Cichol.

Sylvain isn’t stupid. He’s been assigned statue cleaning duty as consequence for going about his business enough times that he’s put two-and-two together. The similarities are clear as day, especially when Seteth is giving orders, be it to a battalion or a group of students or anything else. He holds himself with a saintly surety that he shares with Rhea and with Flayn, and to an extent, with the Professor. It makes his mouth water just thinking about it. From what he’s heard, there are few meals quite as satisfying as laying with a saint, and he’s long been keen on finding out. It doesn’t hurt at all that Seteth is easy on the eyes as well; he’s strong and lean from years, eons, of fighting on wyvern-back. Sylvain has probably lost weeks at a time daydreaming about those broad shoulders, those thick arms and powerful thighs, all the ways those calloused hands could take him apart and the force with which he’d no doubt be able to piston into him. _Ugh._

There’s a bit of a problem, though. Seteth is incredibly uptight, more so than pretty much everyone he’s ever known (including Dimitri, which is really saying something), and one of the very few people to have figured out his secret. Sylvain’s own pride is also a bit of a blockade, which he freely admits. He’s never had to turn on his real incubus charm to weasel his way into anyone’s bed, not yet, and he’s not keen on starting now. But, lady luck has finally turned her fair eye upon him, so it seems. 

What got him here doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Sylvain is currently in Seteth’s office, heavy door slammed closed, finally, _finally_ running his hands down the stiff cotton of his shirt, marveling at the firmness of the muscle underneath. If memory serves, he was caught in the library about to go down on some unimportant student from another house when Seteth popped out of the woodwork, as he often does, and hauled him off to his office by the back of his shirt.

“That’s _quite enough,_ Gautier,” he’d hissed, “I will not have you using your accursed charms on me or anyone else any longer.” Sylvain had put on his best, most innocent smile, and told the very truth:

“But, professor,” he says, “I haven’t been using any charms.” Seteth’s brow furrows, and his lips turn down in disgust. Sylvain had won.

“I do not tolerate lying, incubus.” He spits it out like it’s supposed to wound Sylvain, expose him for what he truly is. Sylvain only trails his hand down towards Seteth’s deliciously small waist and ghosts over the clasp of his belt. Seteth snatches Sylvain’s wrist before it can float any lower. “I _will_ have you repent.” He squeezes, hard, and if Sylvain were anything less than inhuman the bone would’ve snapped. Seteth drags him by that grip over towards his desk, sweeping neat stacks of documents to the floor in a grand arc. They land in a _thump_ at the same time Seteth pins Sylvain face-down with both hands above his head. The finish on the smooth, dark wood is cool against Sylvain’s cheekily smiling face. He can just barely see Seteth from the corner of his vision, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. That cool composure is long gone, saintly features twisting into some amalgam of anger, disappointment, and distaste, all underpinned by an unmistakable lust that pierces Sylvain down to his core. This is it. He’s won. He’s going to be fucked by a saint, and it’s going to _hurt so good._ Seteth’s blunt nails dig into his wrists and there’s an ache beginning to settle between his shoulders.

“I’ve never met something so lascivious as you, Gautier,” Seteth sneers as he practically rips Sylvain’s pants from him, “look at this. Already undone and practically falling off. You make me sick.” The flat of his palm hits the swell of Sylvain’s ass with a loud _crack._ It sends Sylvain reeling against the desk as his cock jumps, leaks out a glob of pearly precum. “Count,” he demands. The calluses on Seteth’s hands are just as rough and pronounced as Sylvain imagined them to be, leaving angry red scrapes on his ass as they land on it again and again and again. Sylvain moans at each one, arching his back and presenting himself for Seteth, the numbers almost lost between his keens and whines as he says them into the small puddle of spit gathering beneath his lips on the varnish. It’s _amazing._ Each smack sends a shock of lust ripping through Sylvain’s body. The knowledge that he’s going to hurt for days after thus, unable to sit through class, much less train or ride a horse, simply spurs him on until the count is lost entirely.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you,” Seteth says. He relinquishes his hold on Sylvain’s wrists to rest both hands on his angry, oversensitive ass and knead it roughly. Sylvain keeps his arms obediently in place. He can feel the desire coursing off of Seteth in waves. There’s but a tiny thread of conscience holding him back from giving in, and Sylvain intends to make it snap. He turns his head a little farther, looks into Seteth’s (dark, lustful) eyes as best he can, shuffles his feet just a little farther apart, and moans like a whore.

“Please,” he whines, moving his hips so Seteth’s hands push his ass farther apart and show off his hole, “please, professor, take what you want. I can handle it, just—” he ruts against the desk. The smooth surface does little to satiate him. He needs to be full, and he needs it _now._ “Fuck me!” Sylvain cries. Seteth’s nails dig into his raw, sore skin, and his knees threaten to fold beneath him, but it does the trick.

“Fine,” Seteth growls, and Sylvain could cry. He probably will. “I’ll fuck you, Gautier. I’ll fuck you like the whore you are. I’ll fuck you the way you _deserve_ to be fucked. Do you want that?” He lifts one of those large, calloused hands from Sylvain’s ass to wrap around his neck, just under his jaw, and pull him up until his back is arched almost painfully. Sylvain can feel Seteth’s breath ghost hot across his ear as he speaks. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Sylvain chokes out, voice barely wheezing past Seteth’s grip. He opens his mouth again but Seteth stuffs his fingers in before he can say anything else. Sylvain’s head spins. He laves his tongue across them, relishes in the salty, musky taste, sucks them like he would Seteth’s cock if given the chance; loud and messy until saliva drips from his lips, runs all down his chin and Seteth’s hand. Seteth pulls his fingers away with a lewd _pop!_ and doesn’t give any warning before he unceremoniously shoves two into Sylvain’s waiting hole. It punches all the air from his lungs with a desperate gasp. Seteth clicks his tongue disdainfully.

“I should have expected as much from a slut like you. Already loose.” His fingers feel even longer and thicker inside of him than they did in his mouth. Seteth practically forces him open, one hand with a bruising grip on Sylvain’s hip to keep him in place as he trembles and moans. He couldn’t collapse even if he wanted to. He’s face-down on the desk again, desperately wishing he were free of his stuffy, constricting uniform shirt. The buttons dig in when he squirms. A couple of the seams groan and threaten to pop. He’s hot all over, drooling on the desk as he’s taken and made use of. Seteth opens him up without a thought for his pleasure. Any brushes over Sylvian’s prostate that make him shudder and leak are pure coincidence—Seteth goes about it like it’s a job, like something he’s been put up to doing, but Sylvain can feel that they both love this, can feel the unadulterated _want_ coursing off of him in waves. It’s so _good,_ so much better than anyone else he’s ever fucked in his life.

“Good enough,” Seteth growls, punctuating it with another hard spank to Sylvain’s already-abused ass, “something like _you_ doesn’t deserve any special treatment.”

Sylvain’s eyes fly open when he feels the head of Seteth’s cock brushing against his hole. It’s blunt and wide and it’s going to _hurt_. Another burst of heat surges through him at the idea. He hears Seteth spit in his palm to slick up his cock, and he thrusts in all at once with such force that the entire desk jolts.

Sylvain practically screams.

The burn is _delicious._ He’s stretched to his limit, fuller than he’s ever been before; Seteth’s cock is long and thick and he slams into Sylvain without mercy, both hands gripping his hips with such force that there’s sure to be fingerprint marks to match the red of his ass. Each pass pulls his cock past Sylvain’s prostate, whiting out his vision and forcing ear-ringing pleasure to course through him from the tips of his toes all the way out the pads of his fingers. “I’m— _ah!—_ I’m gonna— _professor—_ ” Sylvain barely manages to gasp. He’s so close he can practically taste it, he’s going to come harder than he ever has in his life, but then—

“No.” Seteth growls. He wraps a thumb and forefinger tight around the base of Sylvain’s cock, and he _wails._ Fat tears gather at the corners of his lashes and spill down his cheeks to mix with the spit that covers his chin and the desk.

“Please, _please,_ ” he begs, cries as Seteth continues to piston into him at an absolutely brutal pace, “please, I’m sorry, professor, I’m sorry, just _please,_ let me cum, please, _please,_ ” Sylvain’s words are garbled between his sobs and his moans. It feels so good it hurts, and there’s nothing he can do but just sit there, pinned painfully to the desk, cock bumping against it with every thrust but unable to come, until—

“Please,” he begs again like a broken record, “ _daddy, please!_ ”

Seteth stops dead. He’s buried fully in Sylvain’s ass; tiny moans dribble from his mouth and he weakly rolls his hips. Seteth pulls out. Sylvain sobs openly at the loss. His hands are still above his head, crossed at the wrists, cheek to the desk and hole fluttering around nothing.

“Who?”

“Daddy…” Sylvain murmurs into the varnish, barely loud enough to hear it himself, let alone loud enough for it to reach Seteth. Rough hands grab his bruised hips and flip him over, so he’s splayed out on the desk, thighs pushed flush with his sides and presented for the taking. The blunt head of Seteth’s cock teases at his hole. Yet another whine pulls itself from Sylvain’s throat as he tries to fuck down onto it, but he’s pinned in place and completely at Seteth’s mercy.

“I said,” Seteth says lowly, “who, Sylvain?”

Seteth’s cock sinks barely an inch in, just enough to promise. Sylvain swallows thickly.

“Please,” he says, looking up at Seteth from under his lashes (and Seteth looks absolutely _debauched,_ hair all askew and a blush raging across his face, sweating with exertion and a wild look in his eyes), “daddy.”

Seteth growls and slams into Sylvain with such force that the wood of the desk threatens to splinter and break. Sylvain can feel every drag so much more at this angle, raging through his stomach and the depths of his bones, beside himself with pleasure as he moans a sweet and broken chorus of _yes, yes, yes,_ and _daddy, daddy, please._ He finishes untouched soon after, orgasm cresting and breaking with such force that it leaves him weak and pliant for Seteth to chase his pleasure, shivering and whining in the aftershocks as his own cum cools on his stomach.

Seteth buries himself deep when he comes with a groan, sweaty and panting and hanging his head as he breathes through the aftershocks.

“What…” Sylvain hears him murmur, and he grins wildly—the crest of Cichol has no doubt made itself known just where his womb would be. Seteth gently traces over it with the tips of his fingers, making Sylvain shiver. Sylvain doesn’t know if it’s the tattoo that’s appeared or the vision of his spend dripping from Sylvain’s puffy, ravaged hole that Seteth stares at when he pulls out.

“Gautier,” Seteth says after they’ve pulled themselves together and Sylvain is about to take his leave. He looks conflicted. Sylvain feels _great._ “Don’t… don’t go to anyone else for this. It’s my duty to ensure the protection of the student body and I cannot have a… _liability_ like you running amok.”

“Of course, daddy,” Sylvain says, and slips out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! ty ever so much to [rhys](https://twitter.com/softmatchabun) for the comm. 
> 
> i can be found on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mysterymistakes)


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